The Landlady and Her Detective
by CowMow
Summary: When a certain Mrs. Hudson asks a young detective for help, none of them could have guessed how it would work out. They go to Florida to make sure the evil husband doesn't leave the country alive, but somehow Sherlock gets in trouble. T for drugs.
1. Chapter 1: A Surprising Visitor

The old woman arrived duly on time at Montague Street. The clock had not yet struck half past three, and she walked into the messy room. Sherlock could not waste such an inviting opportunity, and scanned her from head to toe. He didn't say anything, but just pointed her towards the chair opposite to his.

"Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes." She carefully sat down into the chair. _Sore hip. Obviously_.

"Tea?"

"Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes," the lady said, looking around the room.

"Is that all you are going to say, Mrs…?" he impolitely asked. "You obviously know my name, otherwise we would not have been able to make the appointment. Your name is not Mrs Turner, I reckon, although you used that name on my website."

"Oh, no. No indeed, it is not. I am Silvia Hudson. Mrs Turner is my neighbour, she has a computer, I don't, but.. "

"How can I help you, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Young man, I may be old, but I like to be treated with a little respect, please! I am trying to have a conversation with you!" she suddenly bursted out. Sherlock blinked, surprised. That such a small, old little lady could be so fiery… _this could become interesting_.

"Continue," he said, trying to be more polite. She had a point, after all. "Please," he quickly added after a piercing look from the lady opposite him.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. I have been married for some years now, twenty-" "Twenty-seven, to be exact," Sherlock interrupted curtly.

"Is this a habit of yours, Mr Holmes?" the lady asked, without any disapproval in her voice, but also void of any admiration.

"I am afraid it is, Mrs Hudson," the tall man admitted. He wondered about this elder lady, he never had a client like her.

"I have been married for twenty-seven years, as you were kind enough to point out. Now, my husband visited America for his work last month. He made a erm.. violent mistake, and now he is sentenced to death. I know he didn't do it, he never would go that far."

Sherlock leaned backwards in his comfy chair, already on the verge of being bored.

"Are you always this loyal, Mrs Hudson? This marriage of yours, it's not a happy one."

She didn't answer him, but looked straight in his grey eyes.

He continued in monotonous voice. "Your ring is shiny, but you lost weight since you bought it, normally it's the other way around. You have little wrinkles around your mouth and eyes, but not from laughing, quite the opposite I would say." He narrowed his eyes, still looking at her. "When you reached for your cup of tea, I saw vague bruises at your wrist and some old cuts. So now I wonder, why coming to me to make sure he will be set free?"

"Mr Holmes, I have been trying this past quarter of the hour to make you listen to me. I want to ask you a favour."

Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes but tried to listen to the little woman. "What kind of favour?"

"I want you to falsify the evidence, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock blinked, for the second time this day. Perhaps the second time in his life. "You want me to.. Why?"

"Under no circumstances do I want that man back in my house!" The old lady looked at the young man, hopefully. "Please, Mr Holmes, will you help me?"

The only consulting detecitve in the world watched her face intentively for some thirty seconds, than nodded, and a rare smile broke around his lips. "Yes, Mrs H, I will help. On one condition. Call me Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2: Mrs Hudson's Famous Apple Pie

After the lady had left his flat, Sherlock walked towards the window and looked down on the street to see her getting a cab. One of his rare smiles broke through. _Just what he needed: an interesting case. At last!_

He walked back to his chair and took his violin. He needed to think, so he started schratching the old thing. It didn't take long before he heard angry footsteps on the stairs, coming his way. He sighed and waited patiently for his landlord to throw the door open.

"Mr Holmes, would you please be so kind as not to torture the violin now?" The voice dripped with sarcasm and annoyance.

Sherlock didn't answer nor look at his landlord, but laid down the instrument and sank in his normal thinking position. His landlord closed the door and his angry footsteps faded.

_He really had to find a new flat._

Some days later, Sherlock phoned Mrs Hudson. Normally he texted, but well… this old lady didn't have a mobile phone, obviously.

The phone was picked up pretty fast, and Sherlock said: "Hello Mrs Hudson, Sherlock here. I've worked out the plan's details, so if you could come here and bring some things..?" He had made up a list with items he needed, and he asked the elder lady to bring all. She promised to come as soon as her apple pie could come out of the oven, it would only take ten more minutes. Sherlock grinned against the telephone. Elder ladies were great as spies, but as a client… it's lucky for her the case was interesting, otherwise he would have stopped right here. Like he was going to waste his time! Perhaps he could book the flight already?

He was busy checking some flight details when he heard footsteps. Softer than his own landlord's footsteps, so it could only be Mrs Hudson. He didn't get up, but carried on and booked two flighttickets.

The door opened, but Mrs Hudson didn't say anything. Sherlock looked up and saw her standing in the middle of his living room, carrying a visibly heavy parcel. He stood up quickly and reached her in no-time. "Come, give it to me," he said, wondering what could be in there. He only asked for a thing or three, nothing much. He took over the parcel, while she took off her coat and looked around the room disapprovingly. "It's a real mess, I can't understand your landlord takes it!"

"Oh, he doesn't. Would you like some tea?" He was already busy with putting the kettle on, and opened some cabinets, searching them all. Then he closed them angrily and straightened his back. "I have nothing in for the moment… Hopefully you're not hungry?"

"Sherlock..! I brought a pie. Have you never had apple pie? Didn't you recognise the smell?"

Again surprised, Sherlock stared at the elder lady. She lifted her eyebrows, a questioning look on her face appeared.

"Erm, yes, I've had apple pie before. My mother used to make it for me. Favourite food, actually. Haven't had it for years though. Do you need a, erm, knife?"

"What, do you normally cut apple pie with a spoon?"

Sherlock smiled a bit embarrassed and picked, after a rather long fruitless search through all his drawers, his knife from the mantlepiece. Several unopened envelopes swirled on the floor.

She cut the pie in several slices, and looked at Sherlock who was standing close to the kitchen, looking at her cutting the pie. She laughed. "It has really been a while, I can tell. Plates? Forks?"

"Oh, yes, of course." He hastened himself to find the things she asked for, but it took a while to find them.

He apologised to his guest. Well, sort-of apologised. "I'm not used to guests who eat from plates with forks," he said curtly, sighing and mollifying Mrs Hudson by the lost look on his face.

She stood up with some trouble (_because of her hip, obviously_) and motioned him to sit down. "I'll make you this cuppa. Only this once, mind you. Next time you make sure this house ánd kitchen is decent."

Sherlock sat down and watched the little lady make her way through his kitchen as if it was hers.

_That pie really smells good!_

The lady in his kitchen kept on talking and grumbling about the state of the place, and when she had finally put the teapot on the table, after Sherlock had made some room for it by pushing the heaps of papers on the floor, she sat down too and sipped from her tea.

"For how long haven't you had a proper meal?"

Sherlock was just about to taste the tea, when she popped the question.

"Why?" was the first reaction that he thought off.

"Well, you don't look like the man that does his washing-ups regularly, and I don't see much dirty plates or cups."

Sherlock smiled. "Good deductions, Mrs Hudson."

"You haven't answered my question, young man."

"What day is it?"

"Friday."

"Then I haven't eaten since Tuesday."

Mrs Hudson gave him a look.

"But I am fine, honestly! I've just been busy. Thinking, solving crimes, you know. Don't you read the papers?" Sherlock started to defend himself.

And feeling the urge to stop this conversation, he took up the plate with his slice of apple pie and took a big bite. He froze when he started chewing. With a surprised look on his face he looked at his guest. "This is good, Mrs Hudson!" he exclaimed with some hardship, trying to keep the pie in his mouth.

"Don't speak with your mouth full! And thank you." The old lady beamed at his compliment.

He swallowed, and said it again. "It's really good."

Both ate on in silence, and when Sherlock had finished his one earlier than Mrs Hudson, she offered him another piece. Gratefully Sherlock accepted it. He did feel mightily hungry all of a sudden. Mrs Hudson watched him eating his pie with a contented look on her face.

When both were finished, Sherlock went back to business. He laid out the plan, _the conspiracy,_ as Mrs Hudson liked to call it. Sherlock decided to leave it that way.

"Your husband, Fred, is imprisoned in the Florida Department of Corrections, for now. He is accused of murder, but he didn't do it, we know that. The victim, Hank McDivitt, chatted with Fred in a bar, they got into an argument, both were drunk. Hank left, Fred left, Hank was murdered in his house, Fred was found some streets away, with bloodstained clothes and drugs. Apparently he got into a fight with someone else, we don't know who. Is that correct?" Sherlock was business-like, as always, and Mrs Hudson only nodded.

"Okay, here is the plan. You are going to testify for him."

"For him?"

"Yes, for him. Then we break in at the crime-scene, leave hairs, fingerprints, that sort of things, then we leave. I'll introduce myself then, say I am a private detective, hired by you to prove his innocence, but, oops, I find evidence against him. Too bad. Fred did kill Hank, Fred will be sentenced to death. Do you like the idea?"

"Oh, so that's why I had to bring his toothbrush, comb, shoes and clothes?"

"Yes."

"Well, it sounds like a good plan, I think, but when will we leave?"

"Tomorrow, 10.45 PM, Heathrow Airport. We'll land some hours later in Florida, a five-hour drive away from the prison and the court. We'll rent a car, I'll book an hotel."

"But I can't go tomorrow! I have got a doctor's appointment for my hip!"

Sherlock murmured a curse.

"I heard that, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, making it sound like a warning. "I'll see if I can cancel it and I will call you later tonight. Is there anything else you need?"

"No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. I'll prepare the evidence, and we'll leave tomorrow."

He looked at the elder lady, and saw some worries on her face. "What is it?" he asked.

"How are we going to pay for it? I have saved some money, but I don't know if it is enough," she said, looking very disappointed.

Sherlock waved her worries away. "My last client was rather rich and very grateful. No need to break your head about that."

The saddened look on her face disappeared and made place for a genuine smile of relief, much to Sherlock's satisfaction.

Before long both walked downstairs, and Sherlock opened the door for her. "Call me as soon as you know if you can cancel the appointment. If you can't, I'll have to book another flight."

"That's okay, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow then."

"I'll pick you up at 4 PM."

Mrs Hudson nodded her consent and walked towards the waiting cab.

"Thanks for the pie, it was great," Sherlock added, but she didn't hear him anymore. With a smile on his face he closed the door and climbed the stairs. Now the first thing he had to do was prepare the falsified evidence.

Later that evening, Sherlock's phone rang. He picked up, and heard the elder lady's voice. She told him, very proudly, that the flight did not have to be cancelled, because she moved the appointment to next month. Then she inquired: "have you had dinner this evening?"

Sherlock sighed inaudible, but answered as politely as he could. "Yes, you left the pie, I finished it, don't worry. Pack your bags, go to bed early. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

He said goodbye to her, hung up the phone and smiled at the darkness of his living room.

_Finally something fun is going on._


	3. Chapter 3: Mrs Hudson Is Watching

"Wait here, I won't be long," Sherlock said to the cabbie, when he left the cab to pick up Mrs Hudson.

Just when the detective was about to ring the doorbell, the door swung open, and Mrs Hudson motioned the young man in. "Come in, come in, do you want some tea? Coffee perhaps?"

"I have a cab waiting outside, we'd better leave now."

The elder lady tilted her head. "My dear, it's freezing outside. I'll make you a nice cup of hot chocolate, that will warm you up. We can leave fifteen minutes later, I am sure."

With a sigh, Sherlock succumbed, and walked back to the cab to pay the man.

* * *

><p>Three cups of hot chocolate and one packet of biscuits later, the two of them were finally ready to leave. Well, Sherlock had been ready for quite a while, but the lady didn't want to let him go without eating properly. <em>You would only get sick on the plane<em>, she said.

One hour later, they were waiting for boarding. Sherlock sat languidly in his chair, almost horizontal, eyes closed, hand palm-to-palm under his chin, whereas the lady wanted to do some duty-free shopping, and returned with sweets and a novel.

When at last the passengers were allowed to go on board of the plane, Sherlock's seat was near the window, Mrs Hudson sat beside him, in the gangway. The plane took off, and Mrs Hudson began stirring nervously. Sherlock sighed inaudible, and turned to look at his companion. "Mrs H, statistics show that only one in the million aeroplanes crash. Very small chance, so sit still, nothing will happen."

"But how many aeroplanes take off every day? And even a small chance is still an chance. I will be very happy if we were just to be there. I don't like flying.."

* * *

><p>When dinner was served, Sherlock didn't touch it at all.<p>

"Don't you have to eat, young man?" the lady inquired.

"I have just devoured all your biscuits, I'm fine for now."

"That was seven hours ago. You'd better eat something," the lady insisted. "When my brother was your age, he kept on eating all the time, nothing was safe for him. And thin he was.. "

"Yes, thank you. I don't need to eat, I need to think. How are we going to plant the evidence? Surely the whole house in under surveillance, we need to find a way to work this scheme out."

Mrs Hudson shrugged and finished her dinner. "I'll leave you to it, I'm sure you'll find a way," she said, before diving into her novel.

* * *

><p>When the aeroplane landed a couple of hours later, Mrs Hudson was sound asleep. Her head she had layed down on Sherlock's shoulder, who didn't even mind it that much. Gently, he woke her up and helped her descend the plane as she was still a bit drowsy.<p>

Arriving at the luggage room, Sherlock said to her: "you can sit down here and wait a bit, I'll retrieve the luggage and rent a car." And off he was, his new, black coat swirling behind him. When he had the luggage and a car, he picked up the lady. She had nodded off to sleep again. He stood there, looking at her for some moments, a vague smile around his mouth.

When Sherlock drove off, Mrs Hudson was fully awake again. She was cheery and hopeful, although a bit hungry. After driving for over an hour, she pointed towards a little road restaurant, one of the many America has.

"I could do with some food," she said. "I think you need some food too! And no, I'm not taking no for an answer. You listen to me now."

Sherlock parked the car, and was just stepping out of it, when his phone rang. _Mycroft_.

"Hello Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was tense.

"I understood you are no longer in the country?"

"Well, good deduction, brother dear."

"Why are you in Florida?"

"I'm on a case."

"With the elder lady whose husband is sentenced to death? I don't know why you fly all the way across the ocean to save a man who will be acquitted anyway."

"The lady pays well." Sherlock could hear his brother frown, and the detective smiled slightly. _Let's wait and see if he takes it_.

"Anyway, gotta dash, the lady wants food. And she wants me to want food too. She's just like our mother," Sherlock quickly added.

"I won't bail you, Sherlock, that's a warning."

"Truly, your concern is heartwarming. See ya."

* * *

><p>"How nice of your brother to call you." Mrs Hudson smiled at the dark-haired young man across the table.<p>

Sherlock only smiled grimly.

"Here, take it." She handed him a plate. "I already paid for it, so you've no excuse not to eat."

"Why are you always forcing me to eat?" Sherlock asked at last, starting to become really irritated at this constant pushing.

"Well, you are thin and pale as a sheet. You don't take care of yourself."

Sherlock didn't respond, but stuck his fork in his food, playing with it. He didn't like to admit it, but he started to like the old, fiery lady, who resembled his mother in so many ways. He had known he could like her very dearly ever since they had met, but he had never dared to hope it would be this soon. He knew he had ruined his life so far. Never eating on time, not taking enough sleep or rest, never having friends to hang out with, but then, he never really had any friends. Well, except his brother. Mycroft seemed to understand him, but Sherlock didn't like to be controlled. And besides, his brother had let him down very often too. Mycroft had always encouraged his younger brother to deductions, observing, but he had never taught him how to control it. Consequently, Sherlock had never been able to switch it on and off, a thing Mycroft could. He was sure Mycroft knew he did drugs. Cocaine. It seemed the only thing that helped him relax, take a bit more distance, give his brain a break. He knew it wasn't good. He had his last dosis yesterday, and he needed it again. Oh, there were these little dealers and shops everywhere, he could find them in no-time. But Mycroft's warning lingered at the back of his head. He had taken an overdose before, he was found just in time. Mycroft had never told their parents. And why would he? It would only upset them.

Sherlock knew he wasn't the perfect brother or son. There were times he wanted to please his parents, but failure after failure caused him to stop it. Stop the charade. His parents hardly contacted him.

"Is everything alright, Sherlock?" Her voice sounded worried. _Caringly worried_. Her eyes were warm, and made him think of his mother again.

He inhaled deeply. "I'm fine." And just to prove he was, he finished his lunch in no-time.

His client sat across the table, a contented look on her face, caused by him eating. He silently decided that that look had to be there more often.

* * *

><p>"Well then, Mrs Hudson: our hotel at last," Sherlock announced when they entered the lobby. He walked straight to the counter. "The rooms for S. Holmes, please."<p>

The man handed the detective the keys quickly and a guy to help them with their bags showed them the way.

Mrs Hudson's room was close to Sherlock's, just opposite in the hall. Sherlock waited until she was inside, opened the door of his own room, dumped his bags and left again immediately.

* * *

><p>When he returned to his rooms, over an hour later, Mrs Hudson stuck her head around her door. "Where have you been? I've been knocking at your door for ages!"<p>

"Oh, nothing to worry about," he said, using his most trustworthy smile, "everything is fine. Just went out to find some.., shops, yes. Shops and some things worth seeing. Florida is a nice state." He quickly closed the door. Hopefully Mrs Hudson didn't know how to recognise the symptoms of drugs use. He knew he shouldn't have fallen for it, but something stronger than himself made him do it. He felt at ease. Well, more at ease. No, not at all. Mrs Hudson shouldn't find out. Why not? Well, she was his client, and clients should trust him. Why that? No-one ever ever trusts him. And why would they? He was cleverer, even with the drugs he saw things clearly. Everything was just less screaming. Less loudly. The world was a friendlier place. Just what he needed. Rest. Time to think. No pressure, just think.

* * *

><p>He lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, a knock on the door woke surprised him. He exhaled sharply. <em>Mrs Hudson<em>. He stood up, opened the door, and went back to the bed.

Mrs Hudson stood there, her arms folded, looking down on Sherlock, silent.

"What?" he asked at last.

"I know the symptoms," she responded.

"Oh." Sherlock somehow didn't care.

"How long has this been going on?"

"How do you know the symptoms?"

"For your information: my nephew used to do drugs, cocaine, as well."

"Used to?"

"He died, an overdose, so tell me: how long has this been going on?"

"Ages…" Sherlock had his eyes closed, hardly paying attention. Well, trying not to pay any attention.

"Your brother called me."

Sherlock's eyes opened in irritation. "What did he say?"

"Said he knew my history, my nephew, wanted me to look after you. He said you should be careful with the drugs, apparently you've had an overdose once, too."

Sherlock shrugged.

The elder lady straightened her back, pushed her shoulders backwards. "Just so that you know: I'm keeping an eye on you." With heavy steps she left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Leaving Sherlock behind. A bewildered, lost and confused Sherlock. _Since when did anyone care what he did?_

_ToBeContinued_


	4. Chapter 4: Ouch

_**A/N: Sorry, things get a bit darker in this part, I'm afraid. But no worries, I'm sure he will be fine, or not... xD Not really sure about that… Anyways, thank you all so much for your alerts and favorites, the amount has been overwhelming! Please, leave a review, anything will do :-). Enjoy this chapter, and I am sorry for the wait, hopefully the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused. Obviously, I don't own anything.**_

* * *

><p>Ouch. That was the first thing Sherlock thought of. The second thing was that he had to open his eyes. The third thing was that the light was blinding, tearing apart his brain. Stumbling out of bed, he tried to reach the curtains, drew them shut and dived back to bed. Sleep, that would be good.<p>

But then the knocking on the door woke the detective from his coma. He grunted and covered his painful head with the white pillow.

"Ooh-ooh!"

"Go away!" Sherlock's voice was croaky and hoarse.

"Dear, it's already ten o'clock, and you haven't had breakfast, and we need to go… You know..?" Mrs. Hudson's muffled voice from the other side of the door sounded worried, so Sherlock tried all his might to get out of bed and opened the door, covering his eyes against the light. He walked back, and dropped him on the bed, while the old lady closed the door. She stood in front of him, her hands rested on her hips in a demonstrative manner.

"Young man, explain the state of you." It wasn't a question, and Sherlock knew that well enough. Yet he just shrugged and remained quiet.

The lady, however, was not giving in, so she silently started a staring contest. At last, Sherlock sighed and shook his head to clear his thoughts. The cocaine-daze still wasn't over.

Mrs. Hudson opened the curtains, and the softly sharp, golden sunlight flooded the room. Sherlock groaned involuntarily.

"You take a good shower, get dressed and are downstairs to have breakfast with me, in exactly 15 minutes," she demanded with raised finger. It could have been funny if his head wasn't turning against him. He moaned in reply and she left his room.

_Food_. The last thing he needed now was food. He had had too much yesterday already, and see what good it had done to him. Okay, this terrible headache wasn't blame-able to the food, Sherlock knew that. But he had needed it, and the urge was just too strong. So he finally gave in, took the shower and was dressed, properly in suit, as always, when the fifteen minutes were over. He quickly went downstairs and joined the lady at their breakfast table. A cup of hot-steaming, strong tea was waiting for him, and gratefully he accepted. The hot liquid made his mind ease a little, pushed back the nagging feeling in the back of his head.

He ate some toast, just enough to make the little, satisfied smile appear on Mrs. Hudson's face again.

When he started to sip from his coffee at the end of the breakfast, he slid in his chair, relaxed, his long legs stretching under the table.

"Sherlock?" she asked.

A soft hum was her invitation to elaborate.

"What are we going to do today?"

Sherlock put down the cup in the saucer, and laid his hand flat on the table. "We will see your husband's lawyer first. We will propose to do an extra investigation, following the plan I explained while being in Montague Street."

His companion nodded.

"I'll see you in the hall in about," the detective checked the time, "10 minutes. We'll take the car, I have planned a meeting with the man already."

He pushed himself up and left. He needed painkillers. _Now_.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, the pair was waiting in the, well, waiting room. Mr. Goodwinch at last opened the door of his office, allowing the detective and the lady to enter. The lawyer allows the two of them to sit down, offering some tea. Both accepted, and when tea was brought in by a beautiful secretary. Sherlock's eyes darted over her, and when he had seen enough he turned his cold-grey eyes on the man behind the desk, putting on his friendliest smile.<p>

"Hello, Mr. Goodwinch, we talked on the phone," Sherlock said, trying to look a bit nervous.

A simple nod was his answer and approval to continue.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson here is my client. I am told you defend her husband in court."

Another nod. Mrs. Hudson looked full of admiration at the young man on her side who had undergone quite a metamorphosis.

"Erm, we are well aware that the chances are he will be sentenced to death, and now we, Mrs. Hudson and I, wanted to make sure he wouldn't."

The odd man behind the desk sniggered. He inhaled deeply and stated: "Mr. Hudson is very well defended, and the odds are not against him at all. However, the investigation is still running, so… You could give me a hand."

Sherlock's smile brightened as he looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"But, Mr. Holmes, you need to sign a paper, in which you promise to tell us everything you find, including all the negative information."

Sherlock nodded, and half an hour later they were standing outside, permission to investigate in Sherlock's coat pocket.

The smile had disappeared from his face, because the painkiller wasn't killing the pain any more. His head felt like on the edge of an explosion, the light burning his eyes and mind. Mrs. Hudson on the contrary was the personification of happiness.

"Mrs. H, we need to go back to the hotel, pick up all the things we need, and visit that house. I have a telephone number from the leading officer, so he will allow us to enter the house. Ready?" He stopped to face the elder lady. She nodded.

"Are you sure? It's quite a big thing, you know… falsifying the evidence against your husband."

"Well, he wasn't a very nice husband," was all his reply, and Sherlock smiled.

* * *

><p>Sherlock coughed. A startled young man, aged 25, turned around to face the taller man. Sherlock held the warrant in front of the man's face, and stated: "I have the right to search this house for evidence."<p>

The young man nodded in awe. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but pointed at Mrs. Hudson nonetheless and introduced her. The man, Stanley Jones his name was, smiled kindly at the woman, but, turning to Sherlock again, he whispered: "she is not allowed in here, I'm afraid. She'll have to wait outside. I'll show you around here."

With his right hand he lifted the barrier tape, allowing Sherlock to enter the crime scene. Mrs. Hudson waited quietly outside, wriggling her hands nervously.

Jones showed Sherlock where the body was found, where Mr. Hudson had been found, for which he opened one of the windows as the man was found in an alley nearby. Also, he pointed out which doors and windows were open and which had been closed. Sherlock scanned the area for placed the evidence could have been found, had Mr. Hudson committed the crime.

Suddenly, a loud cry for help was heard outside. Jones immediately apologised to Sherlock and ran downstairs, as the body was found dead in bath, upstairs. Sherlock, smiling because of Mrs. Hudson's diversion, immediately turned to action. Out of his pocket he fished the falsified evidence, putting the hairs of the victim, the broken fingernails (long live nail clippers) and some DNA on the bath, on the floor and at the window.

When he was busy putting some hairs in the drain, the door opened again.

"So," the young American said. "You are quite young to be a private detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected, while changing his movement from putting the hairs in the drain to getting the hairs out of the drain in one swift movement. "And I'm 30, that's not that young, is it?" He straightened his back, holding up the small plastic back. "Hairs," Sherlock pointed out.

"I can see that," the other man agreed, slowly moving towards the consulting detective.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes against the light. That blasted headache..! His vision was slightly blurred, his senses were a little numbed.

"Erm, yes. Good." The tall, dark-haired man tried to lead away Jones's attention from himself by pointing towards the window. "Here, you see these ingerprints, whose are those?"

Jones shrugged. "You are British. Such a sexy accent you have!" He tilted his head a little.

Sherlock looked at the American man, slightly puzzled. The fact his brain was fogged didn't really help to deduce the meaning of what the younger cop was doing.

Jones's eyes were suddenly filled with lust. Without allowing Sherlock to say through his actions, he grabbed Sherlock's neck and pressed his lips forcefully against Sherlock's. When that penetrated the post-cocaine clouds in Sherlock's head, he pushed the cop away and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His opponent's face was distorted in an evil grimace, Sherlock's face was veiled with disbelief. When Jones made another move, Sherlock punched his chin, trying to get the creep away. He had his pockets full of evidence, if that were to be found on his body it wouldn't help his case.

However, chining the leading officer wasn't such a help either. While the young cop was unconscious, Sherlock emptied his pockets, throwing them out of the bathroom-window. When Jones was conscious again, the small bathroom was filled with cops in no-time, who handcuffed Sherlock and pushed him roughly through the door, down the stairs and out of the house.

The look on Mrs. Hudson's face was one of pure shock, when she saw the brave young man handcuffed, surrounded by several grim-looking cops. They treated him roughly, pushing and pulling him.

Mrs. Hudson's hand flew towards her mouth, covering it in horror. Sherlock widened his eyes momentarily and motioned her to move, with his head. "Bathroom window!" he said, before being pushed in a police car and when the car drove away with him in the back, he stared and said nothing. The noises and light and movement were too much, and he needed all his power and concentration to keep him from throwing up. He shouldn't have had that breakfast.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Mycroft Holmes here," the tall man behind his desk said. Good-humored he asked in jest: "ah, Mrs. Hudson, how is my little brother?"<p>

His eyes widened. "Arrested? On suspicion of what?"

"Ah, chining the leading officer. Sounds like my brother."

"And he has been doing drugs. Does he have any on him right now? Oh, you don't know."

He sighed. "Thank you very much for calling, I'll see what I can do for him. You do have a place to stay, I hope?"

* * *

><p>And while Sherlock's brother did his best to get his younger brother out of an American cell and Mrs. Hudson drank kettles filled with tea wrenching her hands in distress, Sherlock lay on a hard bunk bed in a dusty, filthy cell with closed eyes. When he remembered he still had some white powder on him, he got it out soon and tried to hide it. There only seemed one way to get rid of it, and the solution didn't appall him in the slightest.<p>

The light seemed less sharp, the noises less deafening. His surroundings even looked friendly, and the officer looked like Santa Clause. _Really, he did!_ Everyone was kind, everyone was his friend. The nagging voice at the back of his head was silenced. It has been a while since that was the case. No-one seemed to care for him when he was clean. He was just the freak, the weirdo in the beautiful coat, the vampire that got off on mysteries. But when he had used some, the world was brighter, and his mind wasn't racing anymore. The great consulting detective hated to admit it, but he needed the drugs. He had never needed anyone or anything in his life, but when he discovered the white miracle, he was happy. For as long as he was high, everybody loved him. Everybody loved everyone and the world was beautiful. And now and then, even the greatest mind needed some beauty in his life instead of yelling police officers, yelling land lords or yelling criminals. Just a bit of beauty, that was all he wanted, just some rest, just some peace. The hang-over was something to worry about later, although the curly-haired man always was slightly disappointed when there was a later.


	5. Chapter 5: Oh, no I Ensured It

**Well, here it is: the final part. It's quite a long one, but I couldn't bring myself to cutting it up in two. It features John a little in the end. Perhaps the relationship between the Holmes' brothers is completely OOC, but I simply like the way it is now. Please, feel free to leave a comment (I really, really love them) and hopefully you will enjoy this one. All I can do now is wishing you a happy read!**

* * *

><p>"Mr. Holmes?" A hand grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and shook his limp body roughly, trying to wake the sleepy detective.<p>

A groan was Sherlock's reply, after which the tall man curled up into a ball on his bunk-bed and pressed his eyes shut even more.

"Mr. Holmes?" The American voice persisted, but received no reply from the British man.

"Oh, for goodness's sakes," another voice mumbled irritated, followed by fading footsteps.

Sherlock was just about to drift off into the void, when the bucket with ice-cold water was emptied in his face. He jerked up and groaned softly. Sherlock blinked a couple of times against the bright light, the fog slowly lifting and the dark grey shapes taking form.

"Wow, hello Mycroft. What are you doing here?" Sherlock swallowed hard, his throat was as dry as sandpaper.

"Here," his brother handed him a glass of water and a paracetamol. "Get ready Sherlock, we are leaving." He turned to face the deputy officer who stood outside the cell, arms crossed and looking very bored. "Officer, thank you very much."

"You are very welcome, Mr. Holmes. Good luck with your brother here, he is in a hell of a state." He bent towards the tall man and whispered in his ear: "I'm just telling this to you, but I think he used some cocaine yesterday when he was brought in. I could be wrong but…" He allowed his sentence to be followed by a meaningful silence. Mycroft smiled a little, and walked out of the cell, followed reluctantly by his younger, slightly stumbling brother.

When both men reached the car and closed the door behind them, Sherlock leaned his head against the window, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

"Sherlock, I want to talk to you," Mycroft said, trying to make a conversation.

"Hmm... not now, Mikey, I'm tired, and my head is almost exploding."

"Oh, I'm sure it does. Do you know you have been in that cell for almost two days?"

"Oh, really?" Sherlock faked surprise and opened his eyes. "Where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's fine, in her hotel. But I want to talk about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and answered: "okay, tell me." Mycroft could be very tiresome when he wasn't listened to, so better to give in then.

"Mummy and dad have called."

"Oh…" Sherlock moaned again, wishing he could disappear. He didn't want to listen to all those worries and anger and _sentiment_. He perfectly knew what his parents had to say, as they have said it for the past two years.

"They were very worried about you. They haven't heard from you for ages, and your drug addiction doesn't really calm down their nerves. Judging by the state of you, I think they have a very good right to worry."

Sherlock mimicked his brother in irritation, and faced out of the window.

"They made me promise I'd take care of you, and I am going to do that. Sherlock, you are going to rehab, whether you like it or not."

"Rehab?" Sherlock's eyes flung open and with shock on his face he turned towards his elder brother, who clenched his umbrella as if that inanimate object could help him.

"Rehab? Me? There is nothing wrong with me!"

"Sherlock, you are addicted. You've had an overdose quite recently, and I won't allow you to risk that another time. No, Sherlock, I insist."

Sherlock scanned Mycroft's face and saw he meant it.

"Promise me, Sherlock."

"Are you worried, Mikey?" Sherlock teased his brother in an attempt to hide his vulnerability.

"Yes," Mycroft simply stated. "And to be honest; I'm quite rightfully worried, as are our parents."

"I'm not going to call them." _No way would he do that_.

"I know. Ah, we are here. We are picking up Mrs. Hudson and we go home."

Sherlock protested. "I'm on a case, Mycroft!"

"That case has failed, Sherlock. Mr. Hudson has received the death sentence. Yesterday, they found conclusive proof; fingerprints, hair… He _has_ been in that house, and did the murder. I can't believe you took the case. Attracted to elder women, aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but Mycroft didn't fail to notice the smirk around Sherlock's lips.

"Oh, gosh… Sherlock!" he exclaimed when it dawned on him. "Please tell me you didn't!"

Sherlock chuckled softly and quickly left the car. Mrs. Hudson was just leaving the building, as Mycroft had already notified they were on their way. She walked towards the young man and spread her arms invitingly. Sherlock opened his too, and locked her in a tight embrace.

When they pulled away, she grabbed him at his shoulders, and looked at him attentively. "Sherlock, you look like a mess." Sherlock noticed the tinge of worry in her voice, and tried to ignore it, yet it cut deeper than Mycroft's.

"Yes, Mrs. H, Mycroft was kind enough to point that out too. Anyway, there's good news I've heard?" He joked, trying to keep things light.

Her eyes beamed and she nodded fiery. "Yes, we've done it! I owe you forever, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled and walked inside. "We'll see about that later, Mrs. Hudson. Let's have dinner; I'm sure Mycroft will pay. And afterwards, we go home. I'm gasping for a good old British cup of tea with homemade apple pie, aren't you Mycroft?"

* * *

><p>Three months later, Mycroft opened the doors of the rehab for his younger brother. Sherlock was as pale as a sheet, his eyes hollow and empty, his limbs shakily.<p>

He hadn't meant to, but he had taken an overdose. Thanks to his watchful brother and his landlord, he was found on time, and the appointment with the rehab was quickly made. He had received a card from Mrs. Hudson, saying he should have known better and when he was clean again he was always welcome. It had caused the detective to smile a little. Lestrade's card just said that he was a dumbass. Those two cards were the only ornaments on the white wall Sherlock had stared at for some weeks. The occasional visitors were just his parents and his brother, but never at the same time.

Sherlock turned to face his brother, who handed him his small bag silently. Sherlock dropped it on the ground and pulled his brother in for a quick, awkward hug. Mycroft stiffened a little, but relaxed as soon as his arms had wrapped around his brother's fragile frame.

"Take care Sherlock, I'll visit soon," he softly whispered, softly stroking his brother's dark curls. When he let go of his brother, Sherlock clung to him as if Mycroft was his lifeline. _Well, perhaps he was._ Mycroft felt a sting of worry and something close to _love?_.

He left his brother alone in the hall when one of the attendants came to pick him up. Slowly, Sherlock lifted his handbag and followed the man to his chambers, feeling Mycroft's eyes in his back when the door finally closed behind him.

* * *

><p>Some months later, Sherlock was clean. His skin wasn't as pale anymore, and the relation with his brother had become an even weirder one. Sherlock was grateful for what his brother had done, but chose not to show it. Neither of them really minded; Mycroft was happy enough not to be reminded of the weakness, <em>sentiment<em>, he had shown, and Sherlock knew why his brother had done it and chose not to bring the subject up. Both were happy the way they were, both preferred to stay that way.

When the day came Sherlock was released from rehab, Mycroft, accompanied by his parents, came to pick him up. Sherlock received a small dutiful peck on the cheek by both his parents, his mother trying her very best not to cry. Sherlock silently vowed to himself to stay away from drugs, he never wanted to see his mother cry again. Mycroft admitted he had arranged the Montague Street-flat again; Sherlock could move straight in. The drive to Sherlock's flat was a silent one, but then the Holmes' family had never been much of a talking one. The fact his father carried the bag and his mother made his favourite tea showed Sherlock he was forgiven. They left late in the evening, leaving Sherlock alone in his flat.

* * *

><p>Slowly but surely, Sherlock got used to his new life again. He was recruited by Lestrade again, he was allowed entrance to Bart's and was able to continue his various experiments and research. But one morning, when his land-lord found some feet in the fridge, it was the straw that broke the camel. In this case, it was the contract that broke.<p>

Sherlock didn't want to ask Mycroft for help, not again, and Mycroft didn't offer it, although he knew Sherlock's every movement. Somehow, however, Sherlock's bank account mysteriously expanded, allowing the detective to find a cheap hotel and have enough money to spend on food. When money grew tight at long last, Sherlock remembered Mrs. Hudson's promise, and it looked more appealing than ever. He resolutely took a cab to Baker Street and visited the elder lady, who hadn't changed a bit. She was warm and welcoming as always and, she swore it was a good coincidence, she had apple pie.

When she asked him how he was doing, he said he was great but that he was looking for new lodgings. And knowing she was a landlady, he wondered of maybe perhaps she could help, or perhaps she knew someone?

Mrs. Hudson didn't waste any time and offered him some discount on one of her flats. "I have to live too, so you shall have to pay, my dear."

He took a look at both 221C and 221B, and Sherlock settled for 221B, the flat with two bedrooms, one upstairs. The drafty basement wouldn't do at all.

After tea, which ended around 10, he went to Bart's; he had to take a look at a corpse to find evidence. A man was murdered, before or after being hit, so Sherlock had to find out what bruises would form in a time span of twenty minutes. Molly, the little lab assistant offered coffee. He knew she had a crush on him, and used it when it was convenient to him. He did really like her, but as always, he showed his affection by being even crueler to her.

With the delightful corpse-hitting finished, he went upstairs to do some more research. On his way upstairs, he bumped into Mike Stamford, who asked how he was doing. Mike was a very attentive listener, and even a sociopath needed to get things off his chest now and then. Sherlock told him he had probably found a new flat, but that it was rather big...

"Well, get yourself a flatmate?" Mike proposed, glad he could advice the detective on something at last.

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Me, a flatmate? Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike had smiled a little and left for an early lunch. Sherlock didn't do lunch; he just carried on with his research.

* * *

><p>He was just dropping a liquid in a drop of blood, when the door opened and Mike entered again, followed by a man. <em>Soldier, psychosomatic limp.<em>

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine," Sherlock asked.

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I'd rather text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike apologised.

"Oh here, use mine," the soldier offered, and Sherlock looked up at the man, paying more attention now, magically captivated by the look in the small man's deep blue eyes.

"Oh. Thank you." Sherlock accepted the mobile. _Drunk owner, probably his brother._

Mike, happy to be at some service, introduced the man. "This is an old mate of mine, John Watson."

Sherlock's fingers darted over the small buttons, and said, secretly monitoring John's features, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The look of surprise on Dr. Watson's face after the various expressions of his previous little deductions was charming and somehow attractive, and at the end of the conversation some sort of appointment was made to meet at Baker Street the following day.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock had grabbed his riding crop from the mortuary, he went back to his cheap hotel room, and texted his brother.<p>

_Supply some information about Dr. John Watson, served in Afghanistan, wounded in action, probably shot the shoulder. –SH. _

Five minutes later, someone knocked on Sherlock's door. He opened it, and found himself looking at Anthea, his brother's PA.

"Hello Anthea. Mycroft's here again?" His sarcasm didn't hit the target as she simply nodded, her gaze glued at her BlackBerry screen. Sherlock sighed and lifted his coat from the wobbly chair, following the small, pretty girl.

"Ah, Sherlock. Here, the information you asked for," Mycroft said as soon as Sherlock had closed the car door behind him.

"Ah, thank you." Sherlock opened the filled and quickly flipped it through.

"Who is this man, Sherlock?'

"He is my new flatmate, Mycroft." Mycroft noticed Sherlock answered him in the same way he had asked the question.

"You found a new apartment, then?" Mycroft's eyebrow lifted a little bit.

"Yes. Mrs. Hudson will be my landlady."

"Oh, she's the lady from the America-case?"

"Obviously, yes."

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock could be so childish now and then. He nodded at his driver, and the car drove off.

"Mycroft, where are we going?" Sherlock's voice sounded a little warning.

"We are going to have dinner. You haven't had any in two days, so it's on me."

* * *

><p>In the little restaurant, both men sat down in a far-off, dark corner. Sherlock didn't order anything, he just let Mycroft order and when it was served Sherlock ate half the plate. None of them said anything about it. It was the way it always went, in silent agreement.<p>

Mycroft drove Sherlock back to the hotel and slipped him some money in his pocket, which gained him a glance from his brother, followed by an appreciative nod and a shy smile. Sherlock slammed the door shut and watched the car drive off.

He had an appointment tomorrow. Hopefully it would be his new flat mate. The file he had received from his brother he had clung under his arm as he walked the stairs to his room. He noticed all his books and papers were removed, and at the same time he received a text from his brother.

_Have your stuff brought over to Baker Street. You can move straight in. Don't scare Dr. Watson away please. –MH_

Next morning, Sherlock was awake very early. He wondered why he looked forward to meeting this army doctor, but deep inside he knew. Something in those deep blue eyes reminded him of himself. He hadn't really been looking for a flatmate, but this man longed for the battlefield too. Anything to fight off the boredom would do. He left for Baker Street; surely his brother had messed up the complete file index. _Well, nosy Mycroft always did_. When he opened the door, he smiled when he saw the skull on the mantlepiece. Even Mycroft had some sense of humour...

* * *

><p>When the cab arrived at Baker Street at seven o'clock in the afternoon (Sherlock had to prove a point somewhere in London which resulted in a chase and 5000 quid), the man with the cane and the psychosomatic limp had just arrived too. Sherlock jumped out of the car and greeted the man, who wanted to ring the bell at 221B.<p>

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," the blonde responded.

"Sherlock, please." He shook the small man's hand and smiled a little. _He really liked the man already. He'd better not tell Mycroft; the jokes at Sherlock's expense would be tedious and plentiful._

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive," John commented, some slight disappointment seeping through his voice.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, -the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry," the man interrupted. "You stopped her husband being executed?" Disbelief was written all over his face.

Sherlock smiled smugly. "Oh, no. I ensured it."

* * *

><p>The End.<p>

**Thank you very much for reading, hopefully you've liked the story. :) Just a what-could-have-happened, of course I don't own anything!**


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